


Long Winter's Thaw

by Blue_Lemons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Universe, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Light Angst, Loss of Virginity, Mild Kink, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Post-Canon, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17152157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Lemons/pseuds/Blue_Lemons
Summary: Spring has finally come after the years of war, winter, starvation, and disease.  Many have perished along the way.The only surviving Starks are Bran, Lord of Winterfell, Arya, and Sansa Stark.  At their side are Sandor Clegane, one of the few commanders to return from the war, and Gendry Waters, who have made Winterfell their home and have committed themselves to help the Starks rebuild.  Together they look towards a new future in the north.On a visit to the winter town to see the first goods for sale in the restored marketplace, Sansa reveals her feelings to Sandor in different ways; however, Sandor can't let go of some things from the past.  It's time for what held them back to thaw with the winter snows.





	Long Winter's Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SharkAria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkAria/gifts).



> This is for the 2018 Sansan Secret Santa and for Sharkaria =D Hope you enjoy it!

At the feet of the stone king, another candle flame sputtered and sighed, extinguishing itself in a pool of melted wax. She was surrounded by the old Kings of Winter keeping court in the crypts with their direwolves. As a child, Sansa would have wet herself from fright if she had seen a ghost down here. Today, she would have given her teeth for a glimpse of father and mother to tell them they had survived. Sansa knelt before the tomb that held their bones. The return of Lord Eddard's remains was nothing short of a miracle. The gods keep Hallis Mollen for his devotion. Arya had brought mother's bones back with her to Winterfell, but that was a story she would not speak of and perhaps never would. "It's over now, and we are safe," she said, running her hand over the iron sword that laid across the statue's lap. "The maesters say the signs of spring, a true spring, are upon us. A moon turn ago we noticed the snows melting into the streambeds, but dared not give it a name. We dared not hope for fear of bitter disappointment. Then the raven came confirming it. We will allow ourselves to turn our thoughts to the future, now that we know there will be one." 

A warm orange glow poured into the caverns from behind her as she heard the heavy scraping of boots on the stairs. "Your horse is saddled. If you want to go to the winter town, we best head out now to be back before nightfall," the rasping voice called out to her. Sansa rose, shook out her skirts, and blew out the flame in her lantern. Sandor Clegane waited in the mouth of the passage, holding a torch aloft. Ducking under his arm, she led the climb back up to the surface. 

"Did you hear? Merchants have arrived, ready to do trade for our northern furs," she said. 

"Aye. These wildling trappers are worth their salt. I'll give them that. They're asking ten times the old price for snowbear and white fox, and they'll get it easily."

"The nobles in the south are mad for them. A token to commemorate the triumph of men over the darkness and cold. Funny how they do not prize the turnip so. The humble turnip stood between us and starvation many a day. Perhaps it should be anointed Ser Turnip for its valor." 

Sandor Clegane's laughter was a ruckus she cultivated with hearty appreciation. Rough and rich, it felt like a lick from her direwolf's tongue. "Not to be an ingrate, but I don't think I could stomach eating another one for the rest of my life." She giggled in return.  
He was one of the few familiar faces to return from the war. Since that time he had been enveloped into the goings on of Winterfell like a hand in a glove. Whatever needed doing that he could put himself to, he did, without regard to position or title. When fights broke out over rations, he led men to keep the lord's peace. If a sledge needed a runner repaired, he was one of the few still with enough strength left to lift it. He went on hunting parties into the wolfswood so that they could have meat every so often instead of turnips and stale oatcakes. At first, people gave a wide breadth to the once mad dog and kept their eyes lowered when he came near. As he made himself of service, the fear gave way to familiarity and acceptance. For her, Sandor would listen quietly to her complaints and upsets, offering a thought or advice when it applied. He was quite sensible. And much changed since he came north to fight. 

He did not take to drinking anymore, except what was served for their meals. When a black cloud came over him, it passed as the wind changes. There was none of that festering anger in him anymore. The weary lines around his eyes were as soft as smoke. For a long time after he came back, he could not look at Sansa without betraying his shame, so he kept himself confined to his work. It took her taking the reins, insisting that he accompany her to the godswood, and a determined effort to clear the air. There were many tears, long lists of sorrowful regrets laid to rest, and after which they were fast friends. He could never bring himself to speak of the kiss he gave her so long ago, but that was fine. Given enough time, she had hoped they could revisit it one day. Except that day never came. 

Arya tolerated him well enough… but the looks between them at times gave Sansa a sense she was waiting for him to falter. All Arya would say was that while they were together, he would occasionally mention Sansa in passing when it was natural to their strained conversations. While she admitted he did provide her food and protection, he was "a wretched sot of the worst kind the entire way!" 

"We shall have a feast as soon as the first crops come in. To give thanks for the return of spring and to honor those we lost. I want to see what goods these merchants have brought with them. We need seed for the glass gardens and our livestock replenished," she said as they emerged in the sunshine of the northernmost yard. She flinched and blinked. The bright light of day could still be hard on the eyes after living so long in darkness. It was scarce much livelier above ground than below. There were so few guardsmen and servants left. The very old and the very young were among the first to die along with the sick and feeble. Slowly their numbers whittled down as disease and starvation claimed more. When a bloody flux broke out, Sandor Clegane, by a force of will that accepted no argument, ordered that she and her sister remain confined to their keep with only healthy servants attending them until it passed. Those were days of heated words between all of them she wished never to revisit. They walked past a broad swath of blackened, charred earth where they had lit funeral pyres for the dead. After a while, one body was the same as any other. Most huddled ‘round the fires not to mourn, but to stave off the fangs of cold that bit right down to the bone. 

Sandor snuffed the torch out in a patch of slush. "Best hope someone brought barrels of oranges or lemons. Many are losing teeth and crippled with pain." 

Sansa's tongue went to a tooth in the back, found she could wiggle it a bit more and shuddered. They had infused their beer with pine and spruce to prevent the withering sickness, but clearly, it wasn't enough. "If we find them, we'll buy them all and have them brought here for distribution. My brother provided you an ample purse of silver, I trust?" 

"Aye," he said, tapping on the breast of his jerkin. "His lordship also gave me dispensation to take on at least fifty more men for the watch, though I doubt I'll find that many fit for it. Still, wages will be high now with so many positions in need of filling. They'll come soon enough. You would do well to hire a steward."

"Why? Do I not have the household well in hand?" she asked more defensively than intended. She had taken to rising early, balancing the accounts, overseeing the servants, taking stock of the cellars, dividing the rations, and inventing workarounds for the latest difficulty. While it was near constant work and worries, she was good at it, she knew. If not just for the satisfaction of it, Sansa was determined that Bran should find her indispensable for keeping his castle… and silence any talk that she should marry again. 

"There's no better mistress that I know, but you have only two hands and so many hours in the day. The rebuilding will be hard, and I won't see it take the life out of you." When he saw she was unconvinced, he held her chin in his fingers and tilted her face up to his. "Get a steward to order about, you obstinate old dowager! He will answer to you alone, and you will accomplish twice as much in a day... and while you're at it find a lady's maid to do something about your hair." He laughed as she slapped him away and strode off. "I only meant it hasn't been the same since we had to toss poor Nell on the pyre," he called after her as he caught up in one step for every three of hers. 

"What a wicked thing to say! I should have you put out," she scolded him through a barely concealed smile. Indelicate black humor had its virtues for one's sanity after all the horror and suffering. Everyone in the north was accustomed to it. "Tomorrow maybe. I have need of you today." 

So many things had fallen into disrepair, Sansa thought, glancing up at a partially collapsed turret. What they needed was the good sounds of people filling the castle again. The melting snows had turned most of the ground to a thick mud that sucked her feet in as she walked. Thanks be for high, sturdy boots, she thought as she lifted her skirts out of the filth. She had been saving this dress for the occasion having altered it to her own design in those lonely evenings after their men had left for battle. It was layered in shades of moss and sage, embroidered with a design of balsam and snowdrops. Wrapped around her shoulders and pinned with a silver direwolf brooch was a thick wool shawl of darkest green. 

When they passed the armory to the smaller courtyard of the Great Keep, she saw a nervous groom holding the reins of Sandor's great black stallion who had lost none of his sap and her agreeable red palfrey. Arya was there too, already ahorse, along with her young blacksmith. The first time she laid eyes on him Sansa was struck by how he favored his father. Any fool could see it. Thankfully that was all he took after. Shy and sullen as he was industrious, he came alive when Arya was near. He was smitten with her, that much was plain. And why not? Her flowering had been more than kind: lithe as a willow, hair dark and soft as mink, and a gaze that could pillory a man where he stood. It was more than that though. Where some would see her sister's spirit as a challenge, like the thrill of breaking a wild horse, he seemed quite content to watch her run. Though Arya could be as prickly as a hedgehog if she commented on it, watching the two of them stirred something in her breast. Like pease and carrots, they were. After they had lost Jon, Gendry was the first to make Arya smile again. 

Sansa bid them a good morning, regarding them both with sly-eyed awareness, as Sandor helped her mount up. Gendry muttered a m'lady while a blush rose in Arya's cheeks. "Master Gendry needs more wrought iron to make new farm tools and weapons," she stammered out. "Bran said he could also take on an apprentice or two to help him with the work. I thought to go along to help him. The ironmasters will think twice about gouging him if he has Lord Stark's sister overseeing the transaction." 

"Very wise, sister," she said. "We must meet with as many smallfolk in the village as we can. The people need to see us ready to work alongside them. Oh, and if you see a capable young girl and her parents can spare her, tell her to come to see me in the morning. I am looking for a lady's maid." 

"And a steward," a voice growled behind her. 

"... and a steward," she said through the pinch in her chest. 

"He should be lettered enough to know his way around a ledger, but he must not shirk the collar," Sandor said, mounting Stranger. "Lady Sansa has her ways of doing things. No reason to change them." At that, Arya rolled her eyes and put her horse to the spurs through the east gate. 

As their party came down the main road into the winter town, gaunt faces of women and knock-kneed youths lined the muddy doorsteps and market streets. Sandor was right. He would be hard pressed to find fifty able men. At the start of the war, if a boy was old enough to hold a pitchfork, let alone a spear, he went north to fight with Jon. The greybeards held to the northern way of going out on one last hunting trip rather than steal a morsel from his grandchild's mouth. Despite the state of affairs, the town was shaking off the crushing mantle of winter, like an old bear from its lair. Soon they reached the center of the market square and found the first trickle of goods coming in on mule-driven wayns. 

A good third of the market stalls had raised their awnings. Rows of hams hung on hooks along with bundles of smoked fish. There were a few wheels of cheese and potted meats. Bushel baskets were lined up full of red onions, leeks, carrots, beets, pease in the pod, mushrooms, beans, and of course turnips. No oranges, but there were pears, dried cherries, and lemons. Those looked a tad overripe but were still salvageable. The whole lot was sent back to Winterfell along with a few sacks of barley seed and some she-goats for milking. The small, but marvelous selection promised even more of a bounty to come up the road, perhaps only days or weeks away. As expected, there were wildling fur traders about, dressed head-to-toe in skins with their great bushy beards poking out. 

A swaying cartload of noisy chickens and geese bustled by as the warm yeasty scent from the bakers' ovens wafted through the air. There was even a hint of a greasy pottage bubbling somewhere. Barges from White Harbor sent up several crates of various shellfish, cod, and herring, packed in ice and seaweed. Arya paid the merchant for some oysters, pried them open with her knife, and passed them around. It had been a long time since she had the pleasure of these little jewels. Arya said she liked them best with a bit of hot sauce, but Sandor said he preferred lemon or nothing at all as he tipped the shell back and swallowed it down.

They met with dozens of shopkeeps and farmers along the way. Most said they would be returning to their crofts for planting and lambing. Some had nothing and no one to return to. They desired to start anew working in the castle. One such was a hollow-cheeked girl of fourteen who "didn't know about no lady's hair, but she weren't no thief nor whore and would give m'lady no cause to beat her." That was good enough. Master Gendry still needed to get about his business of sourcing some iron, so he and Arya headed off to another part of town. They agreed to later meet at The Smoking Log. 

As they rode their horses through the center of town, Sansa chattered on about the market and how it was better than she dared hope. "All these children look half a corpse. We must keep the gates open to them, set up cookfires and stewpots in the courtyard along with casks of spruce beer. Oh! We could juice the lemons and stretch them further by adding them to the beer," she said, feeling a rush of excitement to see it done. 

"As I said… there's none better," Sandor said, looking over at her with that crooked smile of his, the one that met his eyes only on one side. A little farther down, the dulcet tones of a high harp and a rich, velvety voice drifted into the streets. "You hear that? Not half bad at all." It wasn't just an off-hand comment. She could see the wheels of his mind turning. "We can make use of that. Get that singer to sing every northern fighting song he knows. We'll have eager lads filling the training yard in no time at all." 

"Just so. I think we'll find him in the inn by the sound of it." 

The Smoking Log served as more of an alehouse than an inn, but it had several well-kept rooms on the floor above. The man who owned it had fallen sick and died, but his widow, Yda, and her daughter, Hanna, ran it now. The common room was mostly filled with locals, both smallfolk and Free Folk, but they also spied some southron merchants among them. All were getting into their cups. The singer was surprisingly grey and grizzled, but he had a charmed voice just the same. He was leaning back in his chair, lazily strumming on his harp, no doubt wagering he'd find steady work in the entertainment-starved north. Yda courtesied when she saw Sansa and welcomed them to a table that she wiped off with her apron. A fire of peat bricks glowed in the hearth while the air filled with the sweet scent of meat drippings and spice. "We have crisped duck, killed and cleaned this morning, in a sauce of cherries and pine nuts, m'lady," she said. "There's also a cheese and onion pie." It sounded as sumptuous as any king's feast and Sansa's mouth watered for it, but they would wait for Arya and Gendry. To start, Yda's girl brought them a plate of steaming hot bread, crocks of butter and honey, and two cups of strong ale. 

The cup looked like it was made for a child in Sandor's hand. After he took a satisfied swig, he licked the foam from his lip and declared it good. It almost made her drop the butter knife. Truthfully, she had dreams about that mouth. She prayed that one day he could fully forgive himself as she had, preferably sooner rather than later. Every day that passed felt like their chaste affections, as precious as they were, were in danger of withering on the vine if he kept under the yoke of his senseless guilt. She was a woman, not a sacred statue. If there was one thing the war and winter had taught her, it was that death was a shadow always on one's heels. 

Just then the wail of an infant cut through the chatter. Sansa turned to see Hanna pick up a swaddled babe from a cradle tucked into the corner. The crying eased as soon as he was rocked and soothed in her arms. "A baby!" she gushed with delight and immediately went over to her. This was a blessed sign — the first healthy babe born in many moons that would not starve alongside their dead or dying mothers or be taken by the Others. Hanna said the boy's father, a sweet, strapping farmhand from the Sheepshead Hills, went north and never came back. When the girl saw her eyes dancing over his pretty pink cheeks, she asked if Sansa would like to hold him. Gathering him into the crook of her arm, she cooed at him and played with his grasping little fingers. He was a charmer for true, and he smelled heavenly like the way Rickon did when he was born. Like always, Sansa could sense Sandor's gaze upon her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his. He seemed almost lost in a daydream for a while until he woke himself out of it by taking another long draw of ale. 

The boy needed to suckle so Hanna took him into the kitchens, so Sansa returned to her seat and buttered a slice of bread. Sandor was becoming sullen and withdrawn, stealing the smile on her face with it. She sighed. Sometimes she couldn't decide whether she should reassuringly reach for his hand or clout him over the head. Rather than allow this brooding to go on, Sansa reminded him of their business here. "Sandor, would you please call the singer over?" she asked cooly. 

"Singer!" he rasped, beckoning him over. The man froze as other patrons gave them nervous sideways glances. "Lady Sansa wants a word." Relieved, the man came before her and made his most dashing bow. He introduced himself as Bayard the Bard, as plain and to-the-point as any northern name could be, and he was happy to be of any service to her. She had but to name it. 

"I'm pleased to hear that. What I require of you is simple. Perform in this inn every night. Rouse the men with ballads of battle and glory. Stir in them their love for their homeland. Winterfell needs capable soldiers to keep the peace. We also need carpenters and stonemasons, washerwomen and kitchen maids. I'd like you to put the word out for me. There are food and good pay in it for them."

"And silver in it for you," Sandor added, chewing on a hunk of honeyed bread. "Oh, and while you're doing all that rousing and stirring, I would mention that Lord Brandon still keeps his father's block for the thieves and rapers. Lawlessness will be put down swiftly. These merchants returning south should be saying the north is a safe place to do business."

The man could barely conceal his excited fidgeting. "Aye, I can do that. You have my word, ser." Sandor only nodded, not even bothering to correct him. 

"And if we see the results we hope for, we would be pleased to invite you to entertain his lordship in his hall and enjoy our hospitality." Bayard's eyes became as wide as saucers, scarcely believing the opportunity the gods saw fit to drop on his head. 

"M'lady's open-hand is only exceeded by her beauty. I shall sing to my last breath the songs of courage and great victories. I could play one for you now so you may be assured of my skills. Perhaps ‘Iron Lances' or ‘Wolf in the Night?'"

"Later. Could you play something more cheerful to mark the season, if you would be so kind?" And with that, he plucked at his harp with renewed zeal, breaking into a rendition of "Six Maids in a Pool" that soon had the patrons drumming on their tables. "Honestly, I don't know why you pester me about getting a steward. You and I partner fairly well… don't you think?" she asked, to which he grunted impassively. 

With more customers filling the trestle tables, the merriment soon reached a fevered pitch. Song after song, the room was growing warm enough to sweat. Sansa unpinned her shawl and folded it up beside her, causing Sandor to choke and sputter on his ale. "Bloody hells! Are you a tavern wench for true now?" Stunned, Sansa looked down and could find nothing amiss. The dress was square-cut across the bodice over a shift, revealing only a small V-shaped suggestion of skin below her throat. It dawned on her that they had all been bundled in such heavy cloaks and furs all winter that it had been long since Sandor had seen the shape of her bosom. Nay, he probably hadn't seen a woman's breasts in years. That is if he hadn't paid a visit to Mole's Town while he was away. She had heard the stories of how men of the Night's Watch were able to keep their vows. Before she could think of a response, a wildling man with a braided beard of long golden whiskers took her by the hand to dance with him as Bayard played. The crowd was clapping and shouting as they spun and bounded to the music. He was a graceful dancer, and she might have enjoyed it more had she not seen from the corner of her eye Sandor on his feet, glowering with his hand on his sword hilt. Well, he had no right to be cross. She would have gladly danced with him if he asked. But at least she had his full attention now. 

When the song ended, she courtesied to her partner, but politely declined another dance. Instead, she asked the bard to accompany her on his harp to which he obliged. Sweet and sad, the melody rose like a morning fog. The rollick in the room quickly dwindled and hushed. With a high, silvery voice, she sang the first verse of a song of Florian and Jonquil, one of her favorite versions. In the far corner, she saw Hanna swaying with her infant son in her arms, eyes closed, no doubt thinking of her love that never came home. The second verse required more intensity as Florian declares his love to Jonquil, but she is hesitant, disbelieving a fool's heart to be true. Just then she saw Arya and Gendry slip through the door, thoroughly dumbfounded by what they found. The third verse went as much as the second, with Florian imploring Jonquil to accept his love as he swears his sword to her. Again, she hesitates. Her heart is melting to him but fears what ill-fate could come of it. 

Though she sang out over the room, her eyes fell on Sandor for the last verse. He looked as though he'd taken a mace between the eyes. Arya and Gendry sat down at the trestle table, but he did not seem to notice. His eyes glittered, and his chest rose and fell with tremulous breaths. The song ends with Florian suffering a grievous injury while protecting Jonquil. As she weeps and holds his broken body in her arms, she prays for the gods to save him. Jonquil's lament so moves the gods that they answer her with mercy. Florian recovers, and they are wed. In the songs, the gods were always good and love always prevailed. Sansa's belief in both had never waned. The only difference was she now believed that people must answer their own prayers. 

The crowd lauded her, banging their cups and spoons, begging for another song. She blushed and shook her head, but they shouted "give us ‘The Maids that Bloom in Spring!'" and "sing us the one about the bear!" Other suggestions that were so positively indecent that she had to laugh. But Yda had just served the roasted duck and pies, and she was eager for a taste. Even more eager to take the seat beside Sandor. Surely the next move would be his. She made her refusals, but the crowd would not be so easily assuaged. Finally, Arya hopped up on the bench, raising her cup in hand. "A round of ale for the house, courtesy of Lord Brandon Stark!" she shouted, and the cheers went up, allowing Sansa to slip back to the table. 

"Thank you, sister," she said triumphantly, as she sat down. She expected a sign, like serving her the choicest portions with his own fork as sweethearts do. He made no such move. To the contrary, he looked like he was back eating in the barracks, head down over his plate. Arya was tearing the meat off a leg, giving her looks like she couldn't decide if she was mad or an idiot. Maybe she'd been wrong all along. Perhaps what he felt for her were only admiration and loyalty. That anything more had faded long ago. After all, she wasn't the same girl he knew in King's Landing. The heat rose in her cheeks, and she felt like she had just made a spectacle of herself for smallfolk to titter over. 

"Ahem, you have a lovely singing voice, m'lady," Gendry said to break the uncomfortable silence. 

"Which she's taken to wasting on drunkards apparently," Sandor rumbled while chewing on a piece of crackling. 

Arya snorted as she threw a crust of bread at him, hitting him on the nose. "On that, we agree. But she wasn't singing for this lot, you stupid arse. Even Gendry here knows that! Why she'd want to, I haven't the slightest, but that's her business." 

"Let it be, Arya," Sansa said, shamefaced. "Please accept my apologies, Clegane. I --" She couldn't finish. Her voice had started quivering, and it took all her remaining backbone to walk outside the inn door with grace and refinement. From there she found her horse hitched outside and ran her hand down her smooth neck. Such a clever beastie, she turned her head to nuzzle against Sansa's face. The sun had sunk lower and the chilled evening air was setting in. She had left her shawl inside, damn it all, but she had already tucked tail. It would be unseemly to cry out here in plain view. She was her mother's daughter and would save her tears for when she was alone in her bedchamber. Stanger nickered and lifted his massive head over her palfrey's, his ears alert and searching. The inn door creaked on its hinges behind her. "I know what you're going to say and I want none of your reproaches right now, Arya. Just please get my shawl for me. I wish to go home."

"Little bird…"

Damn him. "I especially want none of yours." 

"I'll not reproach you, little bird. I mean, I should not have reproached you at all." She could feel him standing close behind her. 

"Please, let me be. No more ‘little birds.' No more walks or japes or confidences. I grossly misjudged your feelings toward me. Now I need distance and formality to give my feelings for you time to cool. From this point forward we are nothing more to each other than custom dictates. I blame myself for this, not you. Now please, go tell my sister I wish to go home."

She stiffened as his large hands gently enveloped her shoulders like pauldrons. "All common sense in me says I should let you believe that. That I should go away tomorrow and let you mend so you can have the life you were meant to have. Your sister is right. You were meant for someone of better breeding without all my twisted insides and repugnant reputation. And I realize I haven't changed as much as I thought, because there's a selfish bastard in me that says ‘fuck that' and wants to have everything with you. I want to guard it jealously as I devour it all. Destroying your precious gift in the process of trying to suck all the marrow out of it. What I feel for you can sometimes be a frightful, monstrous thing to hold at bay." Warm tears rolled down her wind-bitten cheeks as he coaxed her to turn around and face him. "My sweet girl… I never hoped for your forgiveness, and you gave me that. That I have a place to just walk beside you has been the most contentment this old dog has ever had. I am accustomed to never asking for more than what my master saw fit to give me. And now that you tell me, in so many ways, you feel the same…" He cupped her cheeks and brushed the tears away with his thumbs. 

"I do," she sniffled. "I received as much pleasure as you from having you near. Even before that, you were never far from my thoughts when you were away fighting. I imagined myself there with you in that camp in the cold, frozen waste, sharing your burdens and fears. I prayed for the men beside you to fight as fiercely for you as you would for them. To keep you safe --" She was going to say more, but whatever it was, it blew away with the wind. His lips fell upon hers, and it was all the devouring he promised. He tasted of bitter ale, the tangy sweetness of the cherries, and a faint silky feeling left by the crackling. Her nostrils filled with the clean scent of shaving soap, leather, and horseflesh. All the good things in life were converging on a single point and it induced such a greedy need in her. Her hands slid up the front of his jerkin and bunched the leather in her fists. 

He was the first to pull away, but only to look at her with wonderment, as if he was still questioning if his senses had betrayed him. So she clarified the matter by standing on her toes and pulling him down for another kiss. In this, she could be as fierce as any warrior. "Little bird," he murmured against her mouth. "Little bird," he repeated, gently quelling her ardor, though he seemed to be hanging by a thread himself. "This is choice grist for the gossip mill. Let us continue this somewhere more private."

Arya not so much understood but resigned herself to the inevitable truth. That her sister was hopelessly taken with Sandor Clegane and would not be parted from him; however, when Sansa told Arya she would not be returning to Winterfell tonight, she was ready to argue. That is until Sansa reminded her that she hadn't told a soul when Arya made a habit of sneaking off to the smithy in the middle of the night. With a weary sigh, she kissed Sansa on the cheek and mounted her horse. "I'll just tell Bran you're leading the women in a prayer vigil. Be home for breakfast, please. Come Gendry, before I lose my supper." 

They paid Yda for two rooms as a pretense, plus a few extra coins for her discretion. The singer, as promised, had the ale-soaked room belting out songs that praised the deeds of the great kings in the north and the rugged bravery of the farthest-flung hill clans. No one paid any mind as they slipped away upstairs. The room was the largest in the inn, reserved for nobility and wealthy merchants. It had a low fire crackling in the hearth and the luxury of a few small leaded glass windows. The four-posted feather bed was draped in heavy velvet curtains. 

The sound of the door bolting made her turn around to face him. "Not too late, little bird," he said, the apple of his throat moving up and down. He was trying his best to be gallant, but it was plain to see by his wolfish gaze that he was just as mad for her. "There's another room for me if you would rather--"

"Why would I change my mind when I have everything I want right here?" She went straight into his arms, cleaving herself to the hard sculpt of his body. Her eyes implored him as she traced the edge of his collar with the tip of her finger. Every nerve in her body was hot and humming to finally know what they'd been missing. One of his hands was in her hair, deliciously pulling on her scalp. The other was around her waist and sliding up her back. 

"I warn you, girl. After this, you are mine as much as I am yours. I make no promises to being a good man anymore if another tries to claim you," he growled while bussing across her jaw up to her mouth. 

"Please, Sandor. It's been so cold for so long… " she replied breathlessly. "I have found my love, my life now. I wish to be a maid no more." By a silent command, her lips parted for him, and he reveled in instructing her tongue to move with his. It felt so good to be loved so well and better than she ever imagined. It was as if she could burst into starlight. He was groping for the lacing on her dress, yanking at the delicate ribbons, forcing them to slacken. 

"Gods, Sansa, let me see you. I need to see you so bad," he begged. She helped him shimmy her dress over her shoulders and down her arms, and hips. It fell in a lovely green heap around her feet. Wasting no time, he gathered the hem of her shift and lifted it over her head, leaving her in nothing save her stockings, shoes, and smallclothes. He was making insensible sounds as he drank in her form, already fumbling for the bows tied at her hips with trembling fingers. As pleasing as his lust for her was, it was a bit overwhelming. She hadn't gotten to explore him yet, but he seemed so happy, she could afford to indulge him a bit longer. Just then he knelt before her and swiveled her body, so her bottom was level with his eyes. As her smallclothes fell away, she felt his warm, panting breaths there against the divide before taking a playful nip and lick on one of her cheeks. Oh… She hadn't expected men's appetites to be so strange and diverse. "Like a ripe summer peach," he chuckled as he kneaded her flesh back there. When she looked at him archly over her shoulder, he laughed harder and gave her a little spank that made her jump. But then he held her firmly and turned her slower this time as if he wanted to savor this revelation. She couldn't help but blush as he nuzzled against her mound of coppery red curls, inhaling the scent of her sex. His fingers delved between her thighs, feeling the wetness slickening the outer petals. Under his ministrations, she whimpered softly as her eyelids grew heavy. She threaded her fingers through his fine hair to steady herself. Of their own accord, her legs parted a little more for him. He was wild-eyed and shaking as he explored her, struck by her ample arousal. 

Just then he sprang to his feet, gathered her up against him, and rushed her toward the bedposts in a whirlwind. He had her stand before one and grasp it as if she were about to be whipped. "What are you doing?" she asked nervously. She had not expected her deflowering to be like this.

"Please trust me, little bird. It'll be better like this," he said, rustling with his breeches. Then she felt it. His heavy manhood resting on her tailbone. She heard him spit into his hand and then frantically rub it all over himself. 

"Sandor, I don't want to be taken like this." While it did have a certain appeal, she was sure it might hurt more as she was starting to grow tense. 

"And you won't be. I just… need to take care of something before that." He hadn't even finished explaining when he had her rear pulled back and his member sliding along the cleft of her buttocks. It wasn't unpleasant, but not very satisfying as it was only a suggestion of what lovers could do. He grunted behind her in time with his rutting, but that only lasted a few seconds as he adjusted to placing himself between her thighs. This time the head of his manhood brushed against her little pearl, making her sigh and squeeze her legs together to prolong the contact; however, before it went much farther, he hooked an arm around her, pressed his hulking body to her back, and withdrew his manhood in time to spill his warm seed between them. He was still panting and clinging to her, riding out the last of his release, as he murmured against her neck. "Sorry, my little bird if I shocked you. You are the most intoxicating little handful, and I haven't been with anyone in years. I would have shamed myself inside you." He planted kisses along her spine while his hands glided up her ribcage to fondle her breasts, twisting and rolling the peaks of her nipples between his fingers in the most beguiling way. Instinctively her back arched, pressing herself into his sweet caresses. If he kept on like this, she could easily come to favor being possessed so. "Yes, girl," he hissed. "There's so much more I want to give you. Whatever you want of me tonight…"

"Sandor, please," she sighed, clawing at the bedpost. 

"Tell me."

"I need to see you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I decided to break this into two chapters or it wasn't going to be posted in time. I've been pulled in many directions with work and family obligations during the holidays. The second chapter with a continuation of the smut will be posted as soon as possible. ;)


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